“I say, Chinky, what do you do when a boy’s gone on you?”
She would have shrunk from putting an open question of this kind to her intimates; but Chinky could be trusted. For she garnered the few words Laura vouchsafed her, as gratefully as Lazarus his crumbs; and a mark of confidence, such as this, would sustain her for days.
But she had no information to give.
“Me? … why, nothing. Boys are dirty, horrid, conceited creatures.”
In her heart Laura was at one with this judgment; but it was not to the point.
“Yes, but s’pose one was awfully sweet on you and you rather liked him?”
“Catch me! If one came bothering round me, I’d do this”—and she set her ten outstretched fingers to her nose and waggled them.
And yet Chinky was rather pretty, in her way.
Maria Morell, cautiously tapped, threw back her head and roared with laughter.
“Bless its little heart! Does it want to know?—say, Laura, who’s your mash?”
“No one,” answered Laura stoutly. “I only asked. For I guess you know, Maria.”
“By gosh, you bet I do!” cried Maria, italicising the words in her vehemence. “Well, look here, Kiddy, if a chap’s sweet on me I let him be sweet, my dear, and that’s all—till he’s run to barley-sugar. What I don’t let him savvy is, whether I care a twopenny damn for him. Soon as you do that, it’s all up. Just let him hang round, and throw sheep’s-eyes, till he’s as soft as a jellyfish, and when he’s right down ripe, roaring mad, go off and pretend to do a mash with someone else. That’s the way to glue him, chicken.”
“But you don’t have anything of him that way,” objected Laura.
Maria laughed herself red in the face. “What’n earth more d’you want? Why, he’ll pester you with letters, world without end, and look as black as your shoe if you so much as wink at another boy. As for a kiss, if he gets a chance of one he’ll take it—you can bet your bottom dollar on that.”
“But you never get to know him!”
“Oh, hang it, Laura, but you are rich! What d’you think one has a boy for, I’d like to know. To parlezvous about old Shepherd’s sermons? You loony, it’s only for getting lollies, and letters, and the whole dashed fun of the thing. If you go about too much with one, you soon have to fake an interest in his rotten old affairs. Or else just hold your tongue and let him blow. And that’s dull work. D’you think it ever comes up a fellow’s back to talk to you about your new Sunday hat! If it does, you can teach your grandmother to suck eggs.”
But, despite this wisdom, Laura could not determine how Maria would have acted had she stood in her shoes.
And then, too, the elder girl had said nothing about another side of the question, had not touched on the sighs and simpers, the winged glances, and drooped, provocative lids—all the thousand and one fooleries, in short, which Laura saw her and others employ. There was a regular machinery of invitation and encouragement to be set in motion: for, before it was safe to ignore a wooer and let him dangle, as Maria advised, you had first to make quite sure he wished to nibble your bait. And it was just in this elementary science that Laura broke down.
Looking round her, she saw mainly experts. To take the example nearest at hand: there was Monsieur Legros, the French master; well, Maria could twist him round her little finger. She only needed to pout her thick, red lips, or to give a coquettish twist to her plump figure, or to ogle him with her fine, bold, blue eyes, and the difficult questions in the lesson were sure to pass her by. Once she had even got ten extra marks added to an examination paper, in this easy fashion. Whereas, did she, Laura, try to imitate Maria, venture to pout or to smirk, it was ten to one she would be rebuked for impertinence. No, she got on best with the women-teachers, to whom red lips and a full bust meant nothing; while the most elderly masters could not be relied on to be wholly impartial, where a pair of magnificent eyes was concerned. Even Mr. Strachey, the unapproachable, had been known, on running full tilt into a pretty girl’s arms in an unlit passage, to be laughingly confused.
Laura was not, of course, the sole outsider in these things; sprinkled through the College were various others, older, too, than she, who by reason of demureness of temperament, or immersion in their work, stood aloof. But they were lost in the majority, and, as it chanced, none of them belonged to Laura’s circle. Except Chinky—and Chinky did not count. So, half-fascinated, half-repelled, Laura set to studying her friends with renewed zeal. She could not help admiring their proficiency in the art of pleasing, even though she felt a little abashed by the open pride they took in their growing charms. There
